


I Am Human (And I Need To Be Loved)

by ChameleonCircuit



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, connor is a mess and will loves him, reckless behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChameleonCircuit/pseuds/ChameleonCircuit
Summary: There’s blood speckled on his shirt, likely more than he can see without taking it off. He counts the flecks for something to do, something to take his mind of the pain rattling around his ribcage, the giant hole that’s opened up inside of him that only seems to be getting bigger and bigger with each day that passes.He squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the painful throb from what is likely to be a black eye blossoming, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. It’s intended to ground him, but it does nothing more than remind him that he has nothing and no one, that he’s isolated himself from even the one person who could always make everything better. He’s sitting in a jail cell, completely alone with no one to call, no one to ask for help, absolutely no one in the world to turn to.





	I Am Human (And I Need To Be Loved)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Transdodds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transdodds/gifts).



> https://sofuckingchuffed.tumblr.com/post/186412085692/did-you-do-this-to-yourself-and-rhodestead
> 
> pls love me on tumblr too

Empty. Lifeless.

Connor flexes his knuckles, tests that painful stretch of swollen flesh before clenching it into a fist again.

There’s blood speckled on his shirt, likely more than he can see without taking it off. He counts the flecks for something to do, something to take his mind of the pain rattling around his ribcage, the giant hole that’s opened up inside of him that only seems to be getting bigger and bigger with each day that passes.

He squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the painful throb from what is likely to be a black eye blossoming, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. It’s intended to ground him, but it does nothing more than remind him that he has nothing and no one, that he’s isolated himself from even the one person who could always make everything better. He’s sitting in a jail cell, completely alone with no one to call, no one to ask for help, absolutely no one in the world to turn to. He sucks in a sharp breath as the hole inside him seems to grow, and as the locks clunk and a gate slides open he bows his head, skin crawling at the thought of having to share this cell with someone else.

He counts the steps as whoever’s entering walks towards him. There are two sets of footsteps, then one once his cell opens, but there’s no struggle, no voices, nothing to indicate this person doesn’t want to be here. Connor’s about to lift his head out of curiosity when the person crouches down in front of him, familiar pale hands covering his own gently.

“Hey,” Will whispers, thumb brushing soothingly across the back of Connor’s hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Connor’s throat tightens, tears springing to his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he actually feels something other than that gaping, painful emptiness that’s slowly consuming him. He feels shame and hope and fear and embarrassment and love and something far, far more painful, something he can’t quite describe, something that feels like his chest is going to crack open. It makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, so he follows Will wordlessly, swallowing hard against the rising lump in his throat, fighting back tears because he doesn’t want Will to see him cry, not when he’s already seeing him like this.

“Not even gonna ask who called me?” Will quips with a grin once they’re outside.

Connor angles his head in question but doesn’t say anything, still barely holding it together.

Will sighs before climbing into his car, starting it before Connor’s even inside. “The desk sergeant called Jay, who called me,” Will explains, voice quieter, more resigned. “Thought you might be happy to see me.”

He was, and he wanted to say as such, but he couldn’t quite form the words, tears still threatening to cloud his vision. There was a part of him that wished Will never came, that he was still locked inside a jail cell, alone and cold and aching, but without a witness. This...this was too much.

“Whatever,” Will sighs as he pulls out of the driveway. “I’ll take you to the hospital and then—“

“No hospital,” Connor croaks out, hand grabbing Will’s arm. “Please.”

“So he can talk,” Will says, raising an eyebrow. “Someone needs to check you over, make sure there’s no hidden damage, clean you up.”

“You can do that.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Will challenges with a stern look.

Connor lowers his gaze, letting go of his grip on Will’s hand as he settles back in his seat, making himself as small as possible. “Asking.”

Will doesn’t respond, and Connor doesn’t want to push, but after a while it becomes clear they’re heading to Connor’s apartment and not the hospital, and he relaxes a little, letting his head fall against the window.

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive, and with each passing minute, Connor finds he misses the sound of Will’s voice more and more, an absurd thought, he knows, but something he can’t shake nonetheless.

Connor winces as he hauls himself out of the car, and Will’s by his side in an instant, hands hovering, not quite sure what to do. Connor entertains the idea of leaning into his arms, of seeking that comfort he’s quietly been craving this entire time, but he knows that’s not fair. He doesn’t deserve it, and Will deserves better. So much better.

Muscle memory takes Will to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit, and Connor sits on the lounge, not really sure what else to do. He catches Will staring when he comes back out, eyes taking in the room, the stacks of empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, the unopened boxes of his father’s belongings by the door, the piles of mail he hasn’t touched. He knows how it looks, and shame fills him up once more.

Will crouches down in front of him again, positioned between his legs, and takes Connor’s face in his hands, gentle, always gentle, as he lifts a damp washer to his face.

“Did you do this to yourself?” He asks softly, and Connor has to laugh, this bitter, choked-off sound that feels wrong coming out.

“You think I beat myself up?”

“Did you start it?”

Connor doesn’t respond because responding either means admitting to it or lying, neither of which he wants to do, but his silence seems enough of an answer for Will, who sits back with a tired sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Why?”

Connor frowns. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? I know you’re hurting, Connor, but…” Will breathes out, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. He leans in again, taking both of Connor’s hands in his, careful not to touch his swollen, cracking knuckles. “I know that pain, Connor. You know I do. I know it’s not the same, that we’ve been through different things to get here, but I know you, I know what you’ve been through. You could have turned to me. You can always turn to me.”

Connor lowers his gaze, vision blurring with tears until all he can see is a mosaic of colour instead of anything solid. He tries to take a deep breath in, tries to steady himself, but it stutters before breaking off with a sound that’s eerily close to a sob. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Will because, more than anything, he knows Will will try to comfort him and he doesn’t deserve that.

“It’s okay,” Will whispers, cupping his cheek, and Connor can’t help but lean into the contact, breath stuttering as he tries to keep himself under control. “Let it out.”

Those seem to be the magic words, because the dam breaks in an instant and Connor’s sobbing against Will, lungs burning, the pain he’d locked away inside himself spreading through his veins, making itself known. He hadn’t cried since his dad died, he hadn’t let himself feel, let himself express that grief in any way. He’d only locked it away, then locked himself away, only leaving the house when he was looking for trouble, looking for something to feel.

He’d almost been relieved when Will had stopped trying to call, but that was nothing compared to the relief he felt now, Will’s arms around him, hand rubbing soothing circles on his back as he cried. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s too far gone to care.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out between heaving breaths, pressing his face into Will’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Will assures, and strangely enough, Connor believes him.

For the first time since his dad died, since he was forced to question his entire existence, Connor feels like maybe it will be okay, that maybe okay is a possible future, and he can almost physically feel that darkness inside him receding, just a little, to give way to the light that Will was offering.


End file.
